


This Flesh Lives in Crimson-blurred Shadows

by quaid_poppinjack



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Bloodplay, Broomsticks, Gift Fic, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Quidditch, cutting as part of bloodplay, dealing with your past, the fine art of broomsmithing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 14:53:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21340039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quaid_poppinjack/pseuds/quaid_poppinjack
Summary: Years after a Death-Eater uprising where Ron Weasley was publicly betrayed by an ex-lover, he has retreated into a quiet career secretly developing the most sought-after sportingbrooms as a Master Broomwright.  Draco Malfoy has become a popular quidditch seeker for Puddlemere United and is determined to own a legendary Windshear.  Both have developed unsteady ways to leave their past behind. Might they find something more solid together? (merry_smutmas LJ exchange 2005 gift-fic for ze_dragon.)--------"Have you spent so much time around Mudbloods that you've forgotten how to use magic? What is all this?" he added with a gesture that indicated Ron's cramped workshop corner with its familiar chaos of antique Muggle hand tools and Wizarding broomsmithing tools."Not that you'd care," Ron said, still trying to stem his bleeding without flashing his stomach at Draco, "but what do you think? I'm a Broomwright, this is a shop, I know you're not that daft!"Draco leaned his hip against the edge of the worktable and said nothing, but Ron found his smirk irritating enough. He seemed content to watch Ron fumble uselessly for his wand; it was rather uncharacteristic of the quick-retorting Malfoy he remembered.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Ron Weasley
Comments: 7
Kudos: 62





	This Flesh Lives in Crimson-blurred Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> This was written back in 2005 (under the pseuds of up_on_spindles and netbyrd) for the merry_smutmas exchange for ze_dragon. The request notes are long gone, but the recipient had asked for Ron/Draco, bloodplay, and quidditch. In my hunt to locate all my old fanfic from the birth of the internet and before, I discovered this one still on an archive and with an active link on live journal. In the world of Harry Potter fandom, HBP had just been published that summer. 
> 
> There's background Snarry but not enough for the tag. Past Blaze Zabini/Ron Weasley, and at this point, I think everyone had their own headcanon about poor Blaze.
> 
> I pulled the Broomwright/broomsmithing thing out of the air since I figured someone needs to make them.

This Flesh Lives in Crimson-blurred Shadows  
\--------------------------------------------------

_”The masochist is motivated by a desire to escape from self-awareness…it can be an unusually powerful form of escape because of its link to sexual pleasure."-Understanding Human Sexuality, Hyde._

With the ease of a practiced hand, Ron slid a smoothing plane across a knobby expanse of wood. This awkward chunk of hardwood, currently gracing the worktable in the back room of_ The Quaffle Stop Quidditch Supply,_ would eventually rest between the thighs of a lucky Quidditch Cup champion in the form of a sleek, high-caliber racing broom handle. Until that point though, Ron would work diligently on shaping the log to precise specifications. He had a reputation as a Master Broomwright to uphold after all, never mind that not many knew the wizard behind the brand name. 

The workshop he rented was a snug spot tucked in the corner of a large room that was cluttered with piles of broomsticks in every price range. Ron had the WWN cranked to a random channel, offering music that he barely noticed; he was more interested in waiting for the upcoming Quidditch game to be broadcast this evening. What did catch his attention though, was a man's disdainful shout from somewhere in the main shop, loud enough to reach Ron's ears over the combination of the WWN music and the rhythmic scrapings of metal on wood. Ron dropped his tools and snatched his wand off the worktable to investigate. 

"Mr. Candlewick?" he said tentatively as he peeked around the door to assess the situation. Angry customers were an uncommon occurrence in the shop, but they did occasionally pop in. This customer, though, the voice was so familiar to Ron that he couldn't suppress his curiosity. One glance over at the rear counter revealed the shop owner, Mr. Candlewick, with elbows akimbo and back ram-rod straight—sure signs that someone had trod on his very short fuse. And the culprit? Despite the crowd that had gathered, it was obvious to Ron that the source of Mr. Candlewick's ire was none other than Draco Malfoy.

"May I help you with something, Mr. Candlewick?" Ron called out to the shop owner. Both owner and Draco looked his way, the former exasperated, the latter surprised, with eyes widening before narrowing to slits. 

"Weasel, how delightful to find that after all this time and notoriety, you're scampering around a Quidditch supply house as a stock boy." The aloof drawl was certainly unchanged over ten years, Ron thought. He was more familiar with the man's appearance, due to his frequent stints on the cover of various Quidditch publications. Draco Malfoy was taller than he'd been as a teen, finely boned, and sporting the compact musculature of a Seeker. He'd become the darling pretty boy of Quidditch during his debut eight years ago, and hadn't slipped from the public eye since. There was no doubt in Ron's mind that if it weren't for his knowledge of Draco's past, he might have joined the legions of admirers. 

Mr. Candlewick's eyes darted between them, and Ron noted that he made a visible effort to relax his shoulders. Probably wise, Ron mused as he reined in his own irritation at the sneering face before him. No need to start a scene with such a well-known Quidditch player, no matter how much his fingers itched to wallop some color into those perfect cheeks. 

"I've just been explaining to Mr. Malfoy here that the Appleby Arrows hold the exclusive contract for Windshear's _ Leveche _ model Quidditch broom," Mr. Candlewick said in a strained voice, "and they are not available for public purchase. I offered him a test-flight of a broom from the Cyclone line, but he's insistent." 

Draco folded his arms across his chest and regarded the shop owner disdainfully before turning back to Ron. "And I am prepared to offer a handsome payment for the_ Leveche. _It's the top hand-crafted performance broom in existence, and I only use the best. The English National—" 

"Windshear's_ Leveche _ line was contracted out to the Arrows alone," Ron interrupted, "which is one of many reasons they've moved to the top of the league." Ron grinned when it occurred to him exactly why Draco was so insistent over obtaining this broomstick. "And I'm sure the fact that Harry Potter broke several of your Seeking records in his two years as an Arrow has nothing to do with it, right?" 

Draco appeared incensed; Ron knew he'd hit the mark. The shop owner just sighed and seemed relieved that Draco's anger was no longer directed toward him. Ron waved him off, rather delighted that he'd had the chance to rub Internationally Famous Seeker Draco Malfoy's face in the fact that Harry was quickly overtaking his status in only a quarter of the playing time. He was, however, surprised that Draco hadn't spit any vile words toward him in return; his mouth was nearly legend in Quidditch circles. Ron resisted the urge to look at said mouth much closer. 

He intended to return to his workshop to avoid entertaining any further ridiculous notions, like what it would be like to nibble the pale skin peeking from Draco‛s collar, but paused mid-turn when Draco suddenly said in a loud voice, "I'll just have to solicit a contract of my own with the developer." Draco moved closer to where Mr. Candlewick was assisting another customer and sighed melodramatically. "It's quite abominable that this_ lovely _little shop will be losing out on a share of the profits." 

Ron rolled his eyes but lingered in front of the back room doorway. Watching Draco Malfoy make an arse of himself was really too much to pass up. Draco had commandeered the shop owner's attention again, and was now attempting to persuade Mr. Candlewick to reveal the name of the developing Broomwright behind Windshear Sportingbrooms. Ron watched this all dispassionately, confident in Candlewick's silence, until Draco pulled a large sack of galleons from his robes. The shop owner was not immune to profit over promises; his demeanor changed immediately, and he pointed across the room toward Ron with an expression that read,_ What can I do? _

Draco burst into a fit of disbelieving laughter. Rather than listen to whatever insults were about to be unleashed, Ron quickly backed through the doorway. 

"Bloody, greedy fool!" Ron spat once he'd reached the safety of his corner. He slammed his wand down on the table and began hacking angrily at a chunk of wood with his dovetail saw. He should have known better than to trust a merchant; hadn't dealing with his brothers taught him that?_ Obviously not, _ he thought. He hadn't wanted the entire Wizarding world knowing that he was responsible for the revolutionary Windshear Sportingbroom products. He'd had quite enough of dubious fame during the Death Eater Uprising after Harry had eliminated Voldemort. It was nearly two years of his life that he'd give everything to make everyone forget.

Ron's work with broomsmithing had started on a whim as something to distract him from the name-calling during that awful period. With Harry's advice and Hermione's detailed diagrams, Ron had fashioned the first of what became an entirely new line of broomsticks, introduced into play by Hermione's then fiancé, Viktor Krum. Since its introduction, Windshear‛s line of sportingbrooms was growing slowly and steadily through word of mouth, though only his friends, family, and Mr. Candlewick knew the Master Broomwright. 

"And now Draco Malfoy," he muttered aloud, his bicep aching with the force he was using to penetrate the wood. 

"Do you often fantasize about me while working like a common Muggle?" The condescending voice startled Ron into drawing the saw over his pinky knuckle. 

"Fucking hell, Malfoy!" Ron snarled. "What are you doing back here?" He seized a filthy cloth from the worktable to press to the wound, but thought better of it and instead, wrapped the bleeding digit in the hem of his shirt. Draco snorted at this and moved closer.

"Have you spent so much time around Mudbloods that you've forgotten how to use magic? What is all this?" he added with a gesture that indicated Ron's cramped workshop corner with its familiar chaos of antique Muggle hand tools and Wizarding broomsmithing tools. 

"Not that you'd care," Ron said, still trying to stem his bleeding without flashing his stomach at Draco, "but what do you think? I'm a Broomwright, this is a shop, I know you're not that daft!"

Draco leaned his hip against the edge of the worktable and said nothing, but Ron found his smirk irritating enough. He seemed content to watch Ron fumble uselessly for his wand; it was rather uncharacteristic of the quick-retorting Malfoy he remembered. The crisply pressed robes and immaculate hair were absolutely Draco though, and Ron flushed at how grimy and slovenly he must look in comparison. 

"I use a lot of Muggle tools for my work," Ron finally answered, a little disarmed by this more patient version of the boy he knew. "Less magic used in the early stages before charming leads to a better broom-- why am I even telling you this?" He unwound his hand from his shirt to inspect the cut. 

"As much as it pains me to say this, Weasley, I intend to have the Master Broomwright of Windshear Sportsbrooms develop a broomstick of higher caliber quality than the_ Leveche_ model created for Potter and his pathetic team." He paused theatrically and his nose wrinkled in disgust. "Forgive me if I have a difficult time believing that the individual I seek happens to be _you._" 

"Not that different from Hogwarts after all," Ron grumbled. He gingerly moved his finger and winced.

"We each have our histories, don't we, Weasley? Things we like to pretend never happened?" Draco pulled his wand from a slender pocket in his robes with one hand and reached for Ron's injured hand with the other. Ron observed with a bewildered sort of curiosity. His eyes widened when Draco swiped a well- manicured thumb over the bleeding knuckle and smoothed dull, red liquid between his forefinger and thumb. 

Ron shivered involuntarily. "What are you doing?" He whispered. It looked like the prat was studying his blood.

Draco's head snapped up and he focused an icy gaze at Ron. "A healing spell, Weasley. Surely even you've mastered something that necessary, surrounded by all these sharp Muggle...implements." He nearly hissed out the last two words. 

"I'm not designing a broom for you," Ron barely choked out. His eyes were still round, shocked, really, as he watched Draco quickly cast a healing charm while his fingers still curled around the palm of Ron's injured hand. 

"You will once you hear my offer." Draco wore a thoughtful expression and traced his fingertips over Ron's palm once more before releasing his hand. "Wizards shouldn't have calluses," he added unexpectedly.

"Working on brooms nine hours a day does involve my hands, Malfoy."

"Nevertheless, I've seen the hands of other Broomwrights, some rather intimately." He made a show of inspecting his bloodstained fingertips, not meeting Ron's eyes. "None of them displayed such a plebeian trait."

"And none of them create the Windshear you're so desperately after. Now sod off!" Ron focused his energy into clearing off his workspace. There was no way he would be able to concentrate for the remainder of the evening, not with Draco still hovering over his shoulder so closely that he could nearly feel the blond's hot breath puffing against his skin. Ron's hair prickled at the back of his neck. What was Malfoy trying to do to him? 

Name your price," Draco breathed into his ear. 

Ron dropped the plane he was holding and spun around until his back hit the worktable ledge. Draco was so close that Ron nearly stepped on his toes. He swallowed audibly. "No deal, Malfoy," he said in a shaky voice. "You're off your nut if you think I'm going to help you." 

Draco grinned and leaned forward just enough so that his lips were mere millimeters from Ron's. "We'll see about that," he said softly. He spun and Disapparated from the room before Ron could even blink. 

@@@@@@@@

A week passed, one in which Ron heard nothing from Draco Malfoy. This was fine with him; his brain had taken to spinning wild fantasies that often began with Draco whispering dirty things into his ear and ended rather abruptly with Ron throwing himself into physical labor so he wouldn't toss off. It was frustrating; it had been such a long time since he'd let himself get so affected by the teasing touch of another man, not since..._best not to think about that, _he amended as he added the final touches to a newer set of navy blue dress robes.

Tonight, he was to attend the Quidditch Sponsors Annual Ball, much to his distaste. Harry and Hermione had forced the highly sought after tickets upon him and insisted that he crawl out of his workshop for a bit of fun. Ron knew it was just another attempt to ‛find him a nice man‛, as Hermione would bluntly state. Now that she'd been Hermione Krum for several years, she wanted to marry everyone off. 

"At least Harry‛ll leave me alone," Ron mumbled to himself before taking one final glance in the mirror and Apparating to the Westerly Hotel. Most people barely noticed him among all the international Quidditch stars, only a few pointing at him and whispering as he searched for Harry or Hermione. Harry had taken up with Snape of all people, and Ron spotted both men lingering near one of the rear tables in the gaudily decorated ballroom. He threaded his way toward them though multitudes of chatting guests, idly noting that banners from every Quidditch team in the league fluttered along the molding, including the blue and gold banner for Puddlemere United...

Oh no.

Ron stopped short. He was a complete dunderhead. How had he forgotten that Malfoy would certainly be in attendance? That slimy ferret wouldn't miss an opportunity to absorb praise from the sycophants at the ball!_ But surely Malfoy's been at the last few Quidditch events I've been dragged to, _Ron reasoned,_ and I've never encountered him. _

"Ron? Are you feeling alright?" Harry's voice sliced into his thoughts, and Ron shook off any musings over Draco's whereabouts. Harry was leaning against a heavily ornamented table, watching him with an odd expression. Snape, true to form, spared him one irritable glance before returning his attention to his drink. 

_At least I'm not the only one who doesn't want to be here. _

"You look like you've already had a few pints," Harry said, grinning. 

Ron smiled for the first time that evening. "I only wish. Is Hermione here already?" 

Harry waved a hand toward the crowded ballroom floor at an abstract spot to his left. "Somewhere out there, dancing most likely," He took a sip from the amber-colored drink he held and wiggled his eyebrows in a ridiculous fashion. "She says she wants you to meet a friend of Viktor's."

Ron rolled his eyes. "She always has a 'friend' she wants me to meet." 

"Well, she's just worried about you. It's been five years since you've even tried dating, and seven since..." he trailed off and swirled the traces of liquid in his glass.

"Oh no. Not you too," Ron warned. "I've already got my Mum and Ginny and Hermione to nag me." 

Harry just smiled knowingly in return. Someone dressed as one of The Prides chose that moment to approach, offering a selection off a tray full of liquored chocolates. Ron, grateful for the distraction, focused all his attention on the sweets. He was just deciding between two confections when his ears caught Snape speaking in what was a considerably amiable tone for him.

"Ah, Mr. Malfoy. I see you've been in demand all evening."

Ron dropped the chocolate he held as if it'd scorched his fingers and moved back to Harry's side. Sure enough, Snape was deep in conversation with Draco Malfoy. He swallowed and tried to feign a casual demeanor. 

"And of course, the sponsorship offers are too numerous to comprehend," Draco was flaunting, "and I really don't know what I'll choose. Of course, I see you wouldn't be familiar with that problem, Potter, hiding away from the media in this dark corner." 

Harry reached for Snape‛s elbow; Ron knew that it was so he didn't wipe the smirk off Draco's lips. He thought Draco's eyes flicked over to meet his for a heartbeat, but it happened so fast, he might have imagined it. 

Snape appeared bemused by the entire situation. He slipped his hand possessively over Harry's fingertips and his thin lips twitched at the corners. 

"Now Draco," he said silkily, "Surely you know by now that Harry has made a statement refusing all advertising offers because of his...status." 

Draco's arrogant smile faltered slightly, but he recovered quickly. Ron's stomach twisted when Draco turned his attention toward him.

"And you, Weasley?" he said in a soft, mocking voice. "I'm surprised to see you at an event like this. You don't have anything in common with a room full of Quidditch professionals and their dates, do you?"

Ron opened his mouth without thinking, but Harry jumped in and saved him from saying anything completely stupid. "_I _gave him the tickets, Malfoy," Harry said harshly. "Guests don't have to be involved in Quidditch to attend." 

Ron appreciated Harry's loyalty, but he needed to talk to him about Draco. Now.

"And now you'll have to excuse us, Snape, Malfoy," he said, grabbing onto Harry's arm. Harry looked at him curiously. "Didn't you say Hermione had someone she wanted me to meet?" 

"Oh, yes," Harry said, catching on quickly. "Severus, I'll just be a moment. Malfoy," he added with a nod. He allowed Ron to guide him away, nearly halfway across the cavernous ballroom to another secluded corner. "What was that about?" he inquired once Ron had released his grip.

"Malfoy knows. Knows about Windshear." Harry's eyes widened. "Candlewick told him," Ron said in response to the unasked question.

"Is he blackmailing you with it?" Harry asked after a pause. 

"No, even worse. He wants to hire me to design a completely new broomstick for him, one that'll be better than yours." He carefully edited out any of Malfoy's other...peculiar behaviors. 

Harry shook his head so that a lock of dark hair fell into his eyes. "He never learns, does he? It's not the broom that edges performance, but the skill of the rider."

Ron looked over at his best mate, not quite agreeing. Skill was fine and dandy, but even the best player wouldn't take a Windshear _Leveche_ on a Cleansweep. Harry had never owned an inferior broom in his life. Ron let that point slide and focused on the problem at hand. 

"But what should I do? Would he tell everyone if I refuse?" Ron squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. Would Draco Malfoy blackmail him? The younger version would in a heartbeat. The more mature version though...Ron stifled a shiver of arousal at the memory of Draco whispering in his ear. "He says I can name my price." He finally added. 

Harry's eyes flickered amusement. "Name your price, really?" He grinned lasciviously, and then his expression instantly switched to revulsion. "I don't care how fit he is, even I wouldn't push that prat at you."

"Harry!" Ron hissed. He could feel his ears heating in embarrassment.

"But seriously, Ron. I don't mind if you want to take on the challenge of designing a new broom for him. It won't threaten the Arrows' winning streak, if that's what's worrying you." He paused for a moment; Ron could see his eyes narrowed in thought behind the streaks of candlelight reflected in his glasses. "And about his knowing, maybe it's time for you to go public anyhow. It's been years since the fiasco during the Death Eater Uprising. No one is going to remember that you..."

"Don't." 

"I'm just saying that you should consider it. And now you might want to slap a smile on that pout of yours, since Hermione and Viktor are coming this way."

Ron heaved a sigh and, forcing a smile to his face, he waved to his friends in greeting. A little upset that his talk with Harry had only helped a little, he resolved to make the best of the evening.

@@@@@@@@

Three hours and an undetermined amount of alcohol later, Ron was huddled close to the bar, feeling quite airy and sure of himself. He was proud that he'd evaded all of Hermione's needling about the current status of his love life, and his body thrummed on liquid courage due to the copious free drinks. He knew what he would do, how he would act the next time he saw Malfoy. Gone was the trembling Ron Weasley that hid behind his Muggle saws and planes. This was a man who could make a decision and stand firm, no matter what tricks were up a certain ferret's robe-sleeves. A ferret with those dainty wrists and slender fingers that felt cool on roughened palms and would likely feel twice as good if they were wrapped around his aching cock...

"Enjoying yourself, Weasley?"_ that _voice murmured into the soft shell of his ear. Ron turned so quickly that the entire room seemed to twirl around him in a flash of candlelight and shadows and pale faces with platinum hair. He slapped one hand onto the bar lip to steady himself. 

"What 'a want, Malfoy?" he said, his words slurred and barely comprehensible. Ron licked at his lips and blinked a few times to clear the hazy fuzziness from his intoxicated mind. 

Draco watched him intently and offered him a mug. "You seem to enjoy skulking in dark spaces these days, Weasley. Not very Gryffindor." 

Ron heart fluttered in nervousness, his momentary bravery dissolved. "School's been o‛er for years, Malf...Draco. An‛ I've al‛eady gotta poncy lil‛ fru-fru drink, than‛ you very much." He wavered but managed to point out the massive concoction on the bar melting circles of moisture around its base. 

"This is tea, you idiot." Malfoy shoved the cup into Ron's hand, brushing their wrists so his index finger could trail along the rough, ridge of skin that had developed on the fleshy part of Ron‛s thumb from years of work with Muggle tools. "I think you've had enough to drink." 

His hands, already unsure, began shaking even more from Draco‛s light touch. Ron sipped hot tea from the unsteady cup and cringed when it stung the whiskey-burnt tissue in his throat. He set the cup on the bar and his balance wobbled. "I reckon you're righ‛," Ron muttered, mostly to himself. "Bloody ‛Mione an‛er matchmaking." He bit down on his lower lip and turned his head sharply toward Malfoy. Had he just said that aloud?

Draco's lips curled into a smug smile. "Perhaps Granger has a point." He moved closer to Ron's side, his breath sweet and tinged with treacle. "I remember what happened during the Uprising," he whispered. "I read about how you were sneaking behind the Order's back, behind_ Potter and Granger's_ backs with Blaise Zabini." 

Ron didn't want to re-live this, didn't want to dive back into the memories. Every word Draco's pink lips shaped bore down on him like pressing on an old bruise, but he couldn't seem to urge his limbs into moving or punching or scratching at the man in front of him. "Stop it," he uttered in a feeble voice.

"Ah, but I want you to know I understand why you're hiding Windshear from the world. You and your sportbrooms could be world famous, but you only remember the Howlers and the scornful stares when everyone discovered that you were shagging a Death Eater spy. One that used you and turned around to nearly bring down the Ministry." Draco's grey eyes pinned Ron and were luminescent, nearly feverish in the ballroom candlelight. 

"Harry stopped Blaise. He stopped‛im," Ron said quietly. His eyes were wide open but he was only seeing the memories of that awful time replay in his dizzy mind like it had happened yesterday. He ran his fingers through his hair nervously, so it stood on end in spiky strands. He wanted to strangle Draco and rip those perfectly tailored robes from his body so he could gouge his fingernails into unblemished skin and stop his own body from trembling in anger and shame. 

"Shhhh. Shhhh. Quiet down, Weasley, people might stare more than they usually do when I'm present at a gathering." 

"Why are you e‛en brin‛in this up," Ron finally choked out. He stopped and took a deep breath to clear his mind as much as he could with his fair share of the bar's offerings sloshing around his belly. 

"Malfoys don't repeat themselves, but since I'm familiar with your intellectually deficient upbringing," he said scornfully, "I know why you still hide in that disgusting little shop corner of yours, content to produce these marvels in the comfort of obscurity. You're afraid. Every Quidditch representative is clamoring for a Windshear of some kind,_ Witch Broomstick _would pay for an interview, and it's well known only Potter, Krum and Candlewick's shop have access to the suppliers. And all three have been tight lipped over the Master Broomwright of Windshear...until now," he added after a pause. "And if everyone else finds out, you're afraid your reputation and sexuality will be dragged right back into the public eye and ruin everything." 

Ron couldn't tear himself away. How could Malfoy read him that well? "Wha‛ does any o‛it have to do wi‛you?" 

"I want to offer you a new form of payment. A workshop of your own, rather than that dingy little corner you rent from Candlewick. Tools of the highest quality, traditional or Muggle." He spat the last word out with venom. "And if you so desire," he said, his voice nearly a purr, "an impenetrable front."

"Wha‛?" Ron chewed on his bottom lip again, utterly confused. 

"We bury any paperwork for the shop that leads to you. We keep the right people in check so they don't open their mouths. We allow the brand name to continue dominating the market and expand, without revealing the designer of every Windshear line." To Ron's immediate shock, Draco slipped his fingers into the red curls at the nape of his neck, trailed them below his ear and over the stubble at his jawline until he freed Ron's gnawed lower lip from his teeth and rested one pale finger there. "Until you are ready to go public, of course," Malfoy breathed.

Ron wasn't sure how he was still standing. He was already woozy from alcohol and now he was quite sure most the blood in his body had rushed downward. If Draco stepped any closer, Ron knew there'd be no denying how the slimy ferret affected him. With that in mind, he summoned enough willpower to cover Draco's hand with his own and guide it away from his mouth.

"All th..this," he began, then cleared his throat anxiously, "All this because you wan‛me to make you a_ broom? _Are you insane?" he growled, firing up again. 

"No, Ron." Draco had to tilt his head upward to stare into Ron‛s eyes this close; how he could do so and still seem to dominate was unnerving. "Just used to getting what I want. And I always get what I want." He threaded his fingers with Ron‛s and gave his hand a quick squeeze before pulling away. "If you agree with this arrangement, show up at Puddlemere‛s practice tomorrow morning." 

And with that, Malfoy was ice and prickles again, giving Ron one last glare before turning and disappearing into the dwindling crowd. There were no signs of heat or understanding in those grey eyes in that last hard gaze, not like the ones Ron could swear he'd caught during spots of lucidity. It might be that he'd dreamed the entire encounter in a drunken stupor. 

Then why would the roughened flesh on his hand still tingle like this? 

@@@@@@@@

The morning sunlight seared Ron's eyes when he dared to crack one lid early the next morning. A horrid rapping on his widow had pulled him from a night of bizarre reverie and dreams of creamy skin slick with crimson and pressed against his. He didn't remember making it back to his flat; obviously someone had taken the time to strip him to his pants, dose him with a drought against hangover, and tuck him beneath his sheets, he noticed as he pulled the shades and opened the window. Two owls breezed past before he shut it against the chill outside. 

"Pig!" Ron called out his tiny owl, still a bundle of energy in his old age. He perused the message attached to Pig's leg, from Harry, of course, whom had apparently been kind enough to bring Ron home upon finding him slumped over the bar in a puddle of drool. 

Ron didn't recognize the second owl. Sleek and perched stately on Ron's footboard, it followed Ron's movements with its beady eyes. "Come‛ere, you," he said to the bird, wanting to confirm his suspicions. 

The letter was sealed in wax and stamped with an ostentatious letter "M". 

_Ilkley Moor, 9:00  
-M _

Ron glanced over at the clock; it was nearly nine now. He sunk to the edge of his mattress and absently reached for some owl treats for both birds. He'd been so sure that was a dream-a nightmare- he corrected, brought on by too much drink. But with alarming clarity, he recalled cold fingers on his skin and how his blood had seemed to simmer throughout his body. And mostly, he remembered how the git knew exactly why Ron was still keeping a low profile in the world, when both his very best mates were pushing for him to find a life partner and go public with Windshear in one fell swoop. 

Ron checked his clock once more. Still time.

@@@@@@@@

Any Quidditch fancier knew Puddlemere United rotated practices with the Appleby Arrows at Ilkley Moor. It was an ironic twist of fate; Potter and Malfoy, working to best each other over the pitch again for a little golden ball that might pave the way to the starting slot for the next World Quidditch Cup bid. Ron's insides relaxed a little when he peered into the watery early sunlight to watch the team run drills. Quidditch owned a good chunk of his soul; it was no wonder he'd found a way to contribute to the sport after the incident with Blaise had torn his heart to pieces. 

And now... Ron's eyes automatically sought out Draco's light hair against the blue-grey sky. He knew all the whispering and teasing was just another way for the arrogant prick to get what he wanted, but it‛d been a few years since any man had burned into Ron's veins like this._ Pity it's all wasted on Malfoy, _he thought wryly. 

He settled back to watch Draco put the team he captained through its paces, paying careful attention to how Draco handled a broom so he could design a perfect fit for his style. It occurred to him that he'd never really watched him fly, not during school matches and never in a professional situation. He knew Harry melted into the broom so it seemed to be part of him, and Viktor tore across the sky like a hawk after prey. 

Malfoy flew with a subtle gracefulness, his lithe form arching over the broomstick like a lover ready to push a final thrust into ecstasy. "Thinking with my cock again," Ron muttered to himself, working unsuccessfully to shake an image of how Malfoy might appear as his muscles tightened with impending climax.

He spent the morning absorbing Draco's movements. Each shift of that limber body was a piece of the puzzle and would be used to customize the broom. An hour into practice, Draco apparently noticed Ron isolated in the stands; he added more difficult moves than in his earlier conditioning, his face the picture of focused determination. 

Ron felt a sudden thrill when Draco skimmed near and broke his concentration to meet his eyes._ So he does know I'm here, _Ron mused. It almost felt like he was privy to a private demonstration of Draco's talents, and he was putting in extra effort just for Ron._ Which was completely silly, _Ron thought. He swiped his fringe from his eyes and rolled his shoulders, which were cramped from sitting in one spot for so long. He needed to separate his attraction from serious work. Mooning over Draco just because the blond played him like an instrument to get what he wanted was not on. It would be the Zabini situation all over again, though certainly with less dire consequences. 

"Have I not entertained you sufficiently?" Draco had slowed to a hover near the railing closest to Ron and pointed with his chin to a scrap of parchment covered in sketches. "Practice was over fifteen minutes ago." 

"Well, I'm a bit tired," Ron said with a sheepish grin, "but these are notes on how you move with a broom, how your...er...thighs and fingers grip the handle." He knew his cheeks were flushed; why did he always sound like a fool? Draco was watching him with his head tilted to the side and one eyebrow cocked.

"So you've decided, then?"

"Well...yeah. Even if it's you, It's hard to refuse a new broom design."

"Have you decided on all of it?" 

"Erm...perhaps."

Draco pursed his lips and nodded. "Potter know?"

"Sure. I told Harry yesterday. At the ball." 

"Hmmm." Ron wasn't skilled at reading Draco's expressions, but it definitely seemed like a flash of jealousy in those grey eyes before they narrowed. 

"What's wrong now, ferret?" Ron hopped to his feet and shoved his parchment, quill and wand in his pocket. "I thought this was what you bloody well wanted!" 

Still floating near the railing that Ron now leaned over, Malfoy folded his arms across his chest and shifted his position on the broom. "Nothing." His lower lip protruded though, and he looked considerably like a petulant child.

Ron couldn't believe it. The wanker was_ pouting _because he told his best mate his decision? Was this yet another secret in the Malfoy repertoire of ‛getting your way‛? Seduction followed by Moodiness? "Merlin, Malfoy! You're driving me loony. Of course I told Harry."

"Who told you to sabotage the design for this one."

"Listen," Ron snapped, his knuckles turning white from how hard he gripped the railing, "You're going to have to trust me on this, or it's completely pointless. Harry's not worried. He encouraged it, even. Now are we doing this or not, because I need some measurements to get the balance right."

Ron fidgeted as Draco appraised him, cool demeanor carefully in place again. Finally, he wrapped both hands around the handle and nudged the broomstick parallel to the railing. "Get on, Weasel." 

"What are you on about?" Ron asked, not quite believing his ears. 

"Didn't you just proclaim yourself the king of trust issues? Just get on. In the back. " 

Ron flashed him an incredulous look, but climbed dutifully onto the rear of the broom, chanting an internal mantra of_ this is business this is business this is business_ the entire time. He felt awkward and sat stiff so his chest wouldn't touch Draco's back. "Now what?"

Draco chuckled low in his throat; Ron's stomach quivered in response. "You wanted notes on how I handle a broom? This is the best way." He slid on the broomstick, pressing his back against Ron's stomach and groin so he could dip his shoulders forward and wrap his aristocratic fingers around the handle. Ron had no choice but to place his arms around Draco's waist and force himself to ignore the feel of hard thighs between his own. 

He felt Draco shift his hips faintly to the left. The broom darted accordingly, rapidly approaching its top speed. Ron tightened his grip around Draco's waist. Used to a more sedentary position near the goal hoop as keeper, he wasn't accustomed to breakneck speeds on a broomstick.

"Ma...Malfoy?" Ron's voice caught on the fear, anticipation, and arousal that enveloped his body. He tucked his head close to Draco's shoulder for balance and was assaulted with the musky scent of sweat and cologne. Vowing to concentrate on the broomstick rather than how titillated he felt clasped against the hard lines and shifting muscles beneath Draco's practice robes, Ron tried to focus on the professional aspect of this and not on how quickly his cock had perked at the proximity. 

"Do you see what I mean?" Draco said loudly over his shoulder.

"Er..what?"_ No,_ Ron reasoned,_ I've no idea what you've been saying this entire time, as I've been too busy keeping from jabbing you in the arse._

"Are you even paying attention? It still astounds me, Weasel, that your sad excuse for a brain is the one behind Windshear."

"Shove it, Malfoy," Ron snapped, barely audible over the rush of wind in his ears. "It's hard to hear you." The broom swerved sharply and banked left, nearly unseating Ron. He clawed his fingers tighter into Draco's practice robes. "It's tilting too much!" he hollered over the gusts of wind whipping around them. He got a mouthful of blond hair for the effort.

"I want that gone," Draco called over his shoulder. "And better charm work on the twigs. Feel that drag? This was the top model available before Krum appeared with that Windshear_ Ostria _last year. And now your_ Leveche_ model..." he trailed off and skewed downward roughly, his shoulders stiffening with anger. Ron's stomach lurched into his throat, though the hardness between his legs never wavered. 

They continued in this manner for nearly an hour, looping the pitch in widening circles, Draco detailing all the things he wanted different in the new broomstick. Ron found it increasingly difficult to keep track of every request; he swore he could feel Draco's taut muscles rolling against him each time they veered into another Seeker move. The dip of flesh at the nape of Draco's neck was hot against Ron's wind chapped lips, and much to his embarrassment, he had no choice but to brace his thighs inward against the other man's to keep from falling. He hoped Draco was too occupied with flying to notice how aroused he'd become. 

Suddenly, the broom tore into a nose-dive. Ron scrabbled for a better grip and buried his face in Draco's robes. He sunk his fingernails into the first bit of flesh he encountered and bellowed, "What the in bloody hell do you think you're doing, you sodding bastard!" 

His ears were popping, his head swimming with the loss of altitude, yet still, Draco's cruel laughter filtered though. Just as abruptly, Draco's entire body tensed and, grunting with the effort, he pulled the broomstick horizontal with a great heave, only a meter from the soil. Ron tumbled from the broom into a face full of mud when Draco slowed._ That filthy, irritating, git, _he seethed when Draco's mirth continued.

"Fuck you, Malfoy!"

"Awww, don't tell me you can't handle a little excitement, Weasley," Draco mocked. "I hope you learned something about me._ I _certainly did about you," he added with a leer directed right at Ron's crotch. 

Ron pushed to his feet, face scarlet with anger and embarrassment, and he glared at the other man. "I don't know what I was thinking, trying to work with you on this!" he spat as he gingerly dusted clumps of mud from his trousers. He spent several moments in a futile effort at knocking the mud off his body when he realized that it was really rather quiet in the stadium. Unusually quiet. His eyes darted around to confirm his suspicions- yes, he and Malfoy were alone. His stomach swirled uneasily. 

"You must have claws at the end of those bony, freckled fingers of yours, Weasley."

Ron looked over at Draco, who had shed his outer practice robes and was now standing shirtless, inspecting his trim stomach. He was pale and flat, lightly muscled, but what drew Ron's attention were the mildly bleeding furrows his fingernails had apparently gouged into Draco's flesh beneath his navel during that last dive.

Satisfaction and guilt warred within Ron's gut. "You...you deserved that," he finally said. "Trying to pull something like that with a second rider. You nearly knocked me off!" He paused when Draco closed the distance between them. Ron took a step backward, but his eyes were riveted in morbid sort of fascination to how Draco skimmed a flattened palm over the wounds. 

"You're not bothered by a little blood, are you?" Draco said. His voice had gone husky and he was breathing heavily. 

Ron was frozen; he burned with a sickening sort of lust as Draco smoothed the blood over that pale belly. "N...no," he said softly, nearly swallowing the word. What was the matter with him? Every hair on his body was standing on end. Many times when he was younger, he'd envisioned bloodying up the arrogant blond. But never, even in Ron's dirtiest fantasies, did he imagine this ravenous sense of need engulfing him upon the sight of Draco's fingers sensually trailing smears of red over flesh as pale as alabaster. 

Draco raised his crimson stained hand slowly to Ron's cheek and stopped millimeters from touching him. "I thought so," he whispered, head cocked slightly in curiosity and pupils dilated.

"Er...thought what?" Ron managed to say, a little breathlessly. 

"Your hair. Nearly the color of blood." He smiled lecherously and his pink tongue darted over his lips. "A superior blood. Pureblood," he whispered and dragged his thumb along Ron's jawline. Ron's breath caught in his throat. It was surreal- the overwhelming urge to slide his mouth over Draco's thin fingers, how his body ached to fuck or be fucked with a primitive kind of madness; Ron had to ball his hands into fists at his side to gain control of himself, to stop himself from succumbing to the release his erection strained for against painfully tight trousers._ Not another Slytherin with a past, _he chastised himself frantically,_ you can‛t get your heart sliced to bits again. Malfoy‛s for business only. Business. _

"So I'll start on this broom right away," he rasped out, restraining himself from leaning into Draco's touch.

"Your freckles wash away the color. Even your flesh is a blood-traitor, Weasley," Draco hissed as if Ron's been silent all along. "But mine..." He pulled his fingers back and glided them over the drying blood crusting his stomach, in a movement that Ron found disturbingly erotic. 

"And it'll take a good week of work for the prototype," Ron continued babbling in a shaky voice. 

"Don't be afraid, little Weasel. We'll be working together for a long time. Perhaps I'll share with you."

"And the charms will need to set over the weekend." 

Draco continued to ignore him and reached to slide his hand over one of Ron's tightened fists. "I could teach you about clean lines only a skilled hand could master, instead of these pathetic nailmarks." He splayed his palm back over the wounds that were already starting to scab over. "Save those rough fingers for something better."

Ron gulped in a deep, ragged breath, his fists so tight that he was sure nails were digging half moons into his palms._ Drawing blood,_ a malicious voice whispered in his head. His entire body shuddered in response. "And next Monday we could test the prototype during your practice," he blurted. 

"I could show you, Ron, show you how the pain bleeds into the pleasure until you're not sure where one begins and the other ends." His heated gaze sought Ron's, the icy-gray depths beguiling. "The lines blur until every touch against your flesh, every blow or strike or gentle brush can send you reeling in exhilaration." Draco flashed a satisfied smile, obviously pleased at Ron's flustered state.

"YesthenI‛lljustbeleaving," Ron rambled and Disapparated on the spot to his flat. 

He wasted no time with frivolities, brushing away Pig's circled greetings to throw himself prostrate onto his bed. Crimson marring pale skin. A pink tongue darting over lips that shaped filthy words. A light touch, inviting him to cross boundaries._ I don't want this I don't want this I don't want this..._ He punched his fist into the mattress several times to no avail. 

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" Ron flipped onto his back and made hasty work of the fastening on his trousers. He hissed in relief as the pressure lessened on his straining erection, and quickly shimmied his clothing over his hips. With a growing mixture of shame and excitement, he moaned aloud when his cock sprang free and he'd wrapped his fingers around the thickness. Only a few quick jerks were needed before he grunted and spurt over his fist and stomach, a pathetic resignation to the lustful yearning that had plagued him since first laying eyes on Draco last week. "Fucking Malfoy!" he swore once more for good measure. There was no going back.

@@@@@@@@

The remainder of the week, Ron worked robotically, keeping long hours and answering his friends' curious posts with short letters. Only when his hands stilled and he was safely away from the prototype did he allow himself to dwell on the recipient. Getting involved with Draco was probably a Bad. Idea; something akin to waving your arms and legs at a hippogriff you hadn't bowed before. His mistake of believing Zabini‛s lies weighed heavily on his mind, and yet, this attraction to Draco Malfoy had seeped into the morrow of his bones, the ferocious wanting and curiosity of the last week simmered under his skin- Ron was fucked, any way he looked at it. 

It was with much trepidation that Ron arrived at the pitch early the following Monday, prototype in hand and heart nearly thumping out of his chest. The team hadn't even started their practice yet; they'd gathered around Draco to discuss Puddlemere‛s latest loss over the weekend. Ron hung back, not wanting to attract attention. He watched as Draco hesitated in his chastising, eyes darting over in Ron's direction before he released the team to their drills. 

Ron swallowed hard and twisted his fingers on the prototype handle when Draco started walking his way with a derisive expression.

"So, Weasel. You decided to show your sorry face after all," Draco said, the harsh words and sneer betrayed by a flash of vulnerability in his eyes. 

"I said I'd be back Monday, didn't I?" Ron snarled, completely dismissing the fact that he'd Disapparated in a flustered mess that day. He mentally grasped for his anger and held it to his chest; if It was the only emotion that could ground him, so be it.

Draco was unnaturally quiet. He studied Ron for the space of a few heartbeats and then indicated the broom with a nod of his head. "That‛s it?" he asked in gentler voice.

"Yeah. The prototype, mind you," Ron said, relieved to be taking business. "I‛ll rework yours in the colors you'd like." Ron passed the broom handle from one hand to another and met Draco's eyes, a little hesitantly. "I named it_ Boreas, _for the Greek god of the North wind."

Draco's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "And you came up with that by your wretched self?" he scorned, though it appeared he was pleased with the name. He took the broomstick from Ron's hands and peered closer at the grain on the handle.

"Hermione gave me a list of names for wind around the world," Ron mumbled. "I just pick things off that seem to fit."

"And you saw fit to use the name of a_ Greek god _for my broom?" His lips curled into a barely restrained smirk.

Ron's self-consciousness doubled. He folded his arms across his chest and glared hard at Draco. "Just test the sodding broom already, will you?"

With one last gaze, Draco mounted the broom and kicked off, not once breaking eye-contact until he was out of range. He sped into the air and Ron caught the look of pure joy on his face. 

_And that's what makes this so confusing, _Ron contemplated as he followed maneuvers across the sky with his eyes. Because for every cruel insult, Draco would have a moment of teasing without malice. For every scornful expression, he knowingly piqued Ron's curiosity about something deeper and even more wicked. And as Ron spent more time near the man, he realized how often the facade of untouchable elitist slipped. It was an intoxication of a different sort, and Ron wanted to surrender his worries for the chance to be completely sotted, even at the expense of his heart.

Determined to concentrate, Ron shook off the soppy musing and watched Draco experiment with the breaking charms and a few sloth grip rolls until, to Ron's slight apprehension, Draco directed the _Boreas_ into an unmistakable Wronski Feint. Ron needn‛t have worried. The broom performed admirably, responding smoothly and recovering quickly. 

With a fleeting child-like exuberance radiating from his body, Draco landed near Ron and dismounted. His cheeks were pink, his breathing heavy and quick, and his hair more windblown than Ron had ever seen.

_Definitely fucked, _Ron admitted to himself when the sight of an ecstatic Draco induced a hot sphere of lust to unfurl beneath his navel. "Er.. how'd it go?" he was able to say without his voice cracking. 

Draco smiled seductively. "You might be completely useless in most ways, Weasel, but you certainly must have a way with your hands," he replied, still breathless from his ride. 

Ron ignored the insult and stepped close enough that he could catch the scent of Draco's musky sweat. His insides were a giant twisted knot and his mind rang with nagging doubts that sounded suspiciously like Blaise Zabini, but he couldn't stand the wondering any longer. With one great surge of bravery, he licked his lips nervously and bent downward to press a chaste kiss on Draco's soft lips. 

Draco was silent when Ron pulled back, his eyes suspicious but his body still leaning toward Ron eagerly. 

"So you've decided, then?" Draco asked softly in an eerie reminder of the previous week.

"I think so." Ron dug his toe into the dirt and looked down at Draco somewhat bashfully. 

"Don't think._ Know." _

"Well, it's hard for me! After Zabini-"

"It's not hard for thousands of fans to decide they want to fuck me, why is it so difficult for you?" Draco snapped, his fingers tightening on the broom handle. 

"From my understanding, it's not just a romp in the sheets that you're suggesting, is it?" Ron stepped backward, but met Draco's gaze directly. "Or did you mistake me for a giggly fan that just wants to fuck—"

"You know very well that for me to admit to wanting_ anything _to do with a Weasley that it must be—"

"So there_ is _more here. It…it's more than a quick shag, isn't it?"

Draco was quiet for a moment; Ron imagined he was absorbing exactly what those words might have meant. "Yes... yes. It's more than that." Draco's mouth curled into a smirk and his entire demeanor became possessive. He released the broom and launched himself at Ron, slamming their lips together and sending them both tumbling to the ground with a flurry of groans. 

"Wanker," Ron mumbled around Draco's tongue. 

"Don't need to. What you're for." Draco rolled his hips against Ron's, pushing him into the dirt. 

"Fine with me," Ron gasped. His entire body burned; he wanted to rip those practice robes from Draco's body so their flesh could meet, but he settled for dragging his greedy mouth across his jaw-line. He needed to bury his nose into that pale curve of neck that had haunted him all week. 

"I must have been knocked from my broom too many times," Draco hissed, allowing Ron to roll him beneath. "Snogging a Weasley."

"You started it." Ron smoothed his hands up soft skin beneath the sleeves of Draco's practice robes and dug his fingernails into Draco's forearms. He grit his teeth and rocked their hips together, grunting aloud when the sensation was almost too much. Draco tugged on Ron‛s shirt and scraped his fingers against the small of his back in retaliation.

"Hoppin‛ Hippogryffs Draco! Can't you save that for after practice?" A woman's voice jerked Ron's mind back to earth. He froze in realization as laughter rang around his and Draco's entwined bodies. 

"Don‛t you have a quaffle to chase, Pettibone?" Draco said, completely unruffled. He tilted his head and resumed nibbling on Ron's collarbone. 

Ron's ears flamed hot as he pushed up on his elbows to gape at the crowd they'd attracted. His desire and physical excitement wilted away, leaving only a nauseous soup of fear and embarrassment in his stomach. 

"Isn't that the bloke who was working with Death Eaters?"

"That's Ron Weasley, isn't it?"

"Didn't he almost get Harry Potter killed?"

Ron scrambled to his feet, wide eyed and nearly stumbling over Draco in the process. He felt trapped, suffocating out in the open as he was buried under increasingly harsh words. His eyes darted wildly, from Draco to the Puddlemere team, and back to Draco again, beseeching help.

Draco appeared stunned at his teammates reaction, but he coolly rose to his feet and snarled, "I guess everyone wants an extra hour of drill today, right?" They scattered, still speculating and dredging up gossip Ron had hoped most everyone had forgotten.

Ron was wondering how he could choke out grateful thanks though the bile in his throat when Draco spun toward him, eyes icy and face contorted in anger. "This is what you do when someone accuses you of something, Weasley? You stand there like a complete fool and let them tear you apart? I know I shouldn't be surprised-"

Ron Disapparated away in the middle of Draco's words, leaving both the broomstick and the sentence hovering. 

@@@

After he'd made a hasty stopover at his flat, nearly splinching himself in the process, Ron had retreated to his little corner workshop. He'd waved off any of Mr. Candlewick's concerned inquiries, and he'd snatched up the first saw he could find to hack mindlessly at a split log. He hadn't even stopped for lunch or to offer a parting wave to the shop owner once he'd shut down for the evening.

_What was I thinking, _he scolded himself once the massive wave of adrenalin had worked itself out. He sat on the edge of his worktable, among the sawdust and woodchips, and started picking apart curly bits of shaved wood. A few moments later, he was startled from his thoughts when a loud crack of Apparation punctured the silence.

"It's considered incredibly rude to Disapparate while someone is in the midst of speaking to you."

Ron said nothing, only acknowledging Draco by hopping off the worktable to glare at him.

"And it's considered exceedingly discourteous to Disapparate when a Malfoy is speaking."

"I couldn't stay there," Ron said quietly as he paid an inordinate amount of attention to wiping sawdust off his hands.

Ron heard Draco walking closer, but didn't look up again until the sound of wood clacking against wood caught his attention. Draco had dropped the prototype for the _Boreas_onto the worktable and was now watching Ron closely with a calculating expression.

"So you had to rush back here?" Draco sneered. "How very pathetic, to waste your life by hiding in your grubby corner, chipping away at other people's dreams and never drawing attention to yourself because they might remind you of the things you're trying to forget."

"Shut up, Malfoy. You think you're any better? Pulling ridiculous stunts, keeping the rags full of gossip about you so they talk about your latest shag rather than things you did in your past?"

Draco's hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of Ron's shirt. "I told you I'd show you a way to break-free of that dark, little box you've put yourself in," he said, his voice taking on a husky quality. "A way to find escape from who you are, in pleasure and pain."

Ron swallowed and licked his lips. "I...I know," he whispered, his eyes straying past Draco to land on a wall rack bearing sharp Muggle woodworking tools.

Draco nodded toward the tools and leered at Ron. "Do you want to hurt me?"

"I don't..." Ron stopped short. He knew what Draco meant by hurt, but it didn‛t make it any easier. If he submitted now, everything would be different.

Ron's hesitation must have been too long for Draco, because the blond released his grip. Draco reached for his own collar with both hands, and tore his shirt from his body, wincing a little as the buttons popped and skittered on the floor. Ron's jaw dropped, his eyes round in disbelief.

"What are you doing?"

"Were you embarrassed that my entire team saw you grinding into me like a slut?" Draco hissed, carefully sliding his belt from his trousers. "That because of me, others _noticed _you?"

"Put your clothes back on, Malfoy, nobody wants to see that," Ron whispered, though the twitch of his cock and rush of heat enveloping his body seemed to disagree. That indeed, Ron wanted to see Draco, wanted this man before him to look up as he was though his pale fringe, staring with gray eyes that dared Ron to make the next move.

"Go ahead, Ron. You want me at your mercy, don't you?" He said as he pulled his wand from the pocket of his unfastened trousers. With a quick glance at Ron, accompanied by a mischievous smile, he spun and shouted, _"wingardium leviosa"_at the row of tools hanging neatly on a hooked rack. He plucked one of Ron‛s razor sharp whittling knives from the air and let the other equipment clatter to the floor.

"Hey!" Ron swallowed hard again; his mouth and throat had gone dry, and his heartbeat throbbed in his ears.

"This one's pretty," Draco said softly. He slapped it into Ron's hand. Ron's fingers closed around the tool numbly, a silent submission.

A pleased expression settled on Draco‛s face as he leisurely stepped backwards two paces toward the wall. He twisted the belt around his wrists in a messy knot, and lifted his bound hands above his head to entangle them upon one of the tool hooks still fastened to the wall.

Ron watched all this silently, completely in awe. He knew Draco was beautiful, if that word could be used to describe a man, his skin blanched and creamy in the candlelight. But this...seeing him splayed vulnerable and yet still hissing orders in that patently aloof Malfoy way, this was absolutely stunning.

Draco's eyes were glassy and wild with impatience, his chest heaving. "Come here, Ron."

"You're completely mad," Ron whispered, even as he took a few steps toward him.

Draco‛s eyes retained their wild look, but Ron felt as though they could pierce right through his flesh. "I know you want to move closer, Ron. Like a good little Weasley, always doing the right thing. But now the right thing is scaring you isn‛t it? Are you frightened, Gryffindor?"

Ron frowned and closed the distance between their bodies. "I'm not afraid of you or your...twisted brain." His fingers tightened around the whittling knife.

"I knew there had to be some courage boiling in that pureblood of yours."

"Shut up, Malfoy!" Ron hissed in Draco‛s face. Ron‛s breathing was heavy, his cock nearly fit to burst his trousers, and suddenly, he wondered why he was just standing there. His muddled brain recalled how weird Draco had been over the calluses on his hands, so he slid one palm up Draco‛s stomach and over his chest. Draco‛s breath hitched and he tilted his head back.

"Are you still angry?" Draco rasped as Ron‛s hand slid over his skin. "Still want to hurt me, to draw that blade across my skin and watch me struggle? But I‛m not going to struggle Ron. I‛m going to enjoy it...plead for you to do it again, want it so much that you won't be able to help yourself from needing to share in my pleasure."

His fingers still tight and sweaty on the knife, Ron stalled by dropping kisses onto the curve of Draco‛s shoulder and tonguing the salty, feverish skin. The saner parts of his brain tried to feebly rebel. _I‛ll be a sick fuck if I do this, I know it._But wasn‛t his life sort of sick already? Spending 14 hours a day in the shadowy corners of this shop, Apparating home to an empty flat, save one aging owl? Listening to story after story about Harry and Hermione‛s lives, because they lived, they did, and Ron almost hated them sometimes for their ability to move on.

No. More.

Ron cupped Draco‛s chin with his free hand and kissed him softly and open mouthed, so that their tongues brushed together in nearly a caress. It was certainly different; for some reason, it had lodged in Ron‛s mind that if he was about to slice across Draco‛s skin,_this_should be gentle.

Their lips parted with a soft sound. Ron was unsure over what came next, and stood awkwardly before Draco. "What do I..." he began, motioning toward Draco. He felt an embarrassed flush creeping over his neck and ears._What a sodding idiot I am, _he scolded himself when Draco chuckled deep in his chest.

"It's not usually this way," Draco whispered. He tugged on his restraints and arched his back so his chest and flat tummy pushed forward. "But you're skilled with your hands, I've seen the detailed carving on a Windshear handle. To have you press that blade into me as your first...," he trailed off and shivered, his eyes half lidded with lust.

"Tell me what to do," Ron repeated, much stronger this time. One compliment earned from Malfoy washed though Ron and thrilled him like hundreds from someone else. It made him want to please Draco, to do anything the git said, and it suddenly occurred to Ron why it was that so many wizards and witches had fallen prey to him, even with his past.

Ron trailed one finger over the shoulder he'd lavished earlier attention on, circling the hollow of Draco's throat and exploring a broad plane of muscle above Draco's nipple. Draco gasped, writhing in his bonds, and it encouraged Ron to lean close to Draco's ear. "What do I do, Draco," he said huskily.

Draco moaned and Ron was pleased to see him thrust his hips in a desperate search for contact. "Your softest touch," Draco finally whispered, his eyes catching Ron's. "Don't be afraid."

Ron's entire body hummed with arousal. His clothing seemed suddenly stifling hot and too restraining, and he quickly pulled his shirt over his head and sucked in a deep breath of air. Draco was panting heavily and watched him intently while he shed his trousers as well. Ron met his gaze again, standing only in his pants, and puffed out a nervous breath. Attempting to control his shaking, he touched the tip of the whittling knife to the pad of his index finger. One small drop of blood blossomed from the tiny nick.

"Well, it's sharp," Ron said breathlessly and with a nervous laugh. Oh Merlin. What was he doing?

"Let me taste you," Draco said roughly. Ron's eyes bugged out, but he swiped his finger over Draco's lips and groaned when Draco sucked the scarcely bleeding digit into his warm, moist mouth. Draco swirled his tongue over Ron's finger without breaking their gaze. He hooked one leg around Ron's calf and urged their bodies closer, still arching and straining at the belt wrapped around his wrists. Ron caught his mouth up in a kiss; he had an overwhelming desire to see if he could taste the tangy metallic flavor of his own blood on Draco's tongue.

"Now carve your mark into me, make me feel it," Draco whispered against Ron's lips, his excitement evident in his voice and in his erection that strained against his partially unfastened trousers.

Ron could feel his heart thudding against his ribcage as he raised the whittling knife. He pressed the flat edge of the blade against a swatch of unmarred skin above Draco's left nipple and smoothed it several centimeters. "Like...like this?" he choked out, completely shocked at how his cock ached from looking at just the small indentation in Draco's flesh.

"Yes...yes,_please..." _Draco whined.

Ron twisted the knife and finally pierced Draco's skin; the pressure was delicate, but bright red liquid welled at the blade-tip and looked startlingly luminescent against Draco's very light skin. Ron's eyes flicked apprehensively between Draco's face and his own hand.

"Go on," Draco hissed, nearly bowing his back in an attempt to push his chest into the blade. Ron splayed one large hand against Draco's stomach, more to steady himself than to still Draco's movements.

Biting his tongue in concentration, Ron drew the whittling knife blade against Draco's skin in a tightly controlled movement. His touch was gentle, and he couldn't help marveling at how the blade marked the skin so finely--_finer than the softest wood,_he mused in wonderment.

Draco's stomach tensed up, and he released a throaty groan when he tipped his head down to watch his blood seep from the precise line Ron had drawn across his chest. "Again!"

A wave of intense need engulfed Ron's insides. He watched Draco's nostrils flare with the power of each breath and how his whimpers were barely restrained.

The realization that _he _was the one responsible almost overwhelmed Ron.

He trailed the flat side of the knife with the faintest touch along the ridge of Draco's collarbone. When the blade reached the soft flesh beneath the joint in Draco's shoulder, Ron twisted his wrist to make the second cut, just as defined as the first. The blood welled a bit more thickly this time, warming Ron's fingers with its slow trickle.

Draco's body jerked and he groaned aloud, though Ron was barely aware. He was busy sliding his other rough, callused hand across goose pimpled flesh to wet his fingers in Draco Malfoy‛s blood. He smoothed the still heated liquid between his thumb and index finger in an unconscious imitation of what Draco had done to him on that day they'd first encountered each other again. He looked up from his fingertips when Draco rubbed his calf along Ron's leg.

"You see?" Draco whispered; he'd obviously caught Ron's morbid fascination at the sight of his fingertips slick with blood.

This..." Ron managed to say, his voice thick with desire, "you want me to touch you like this?" He couldn't pull his eyes away from how the hot, scarlet blood beaded and rolled over Draco's smooth, pale flesh. A sudden flash of memory descended on him, broken dreams of creamy skin painted scarlet and pressed to his own flesh. He submitted to the urge to close the final few centimeters between their bodies so they touched from hips to chest.

"It's...a way to escape, Weasley." Draco bent his forehead to Ron's shoulder, panting now, his words breathy and low. "There is no Malfoy...no pressures of name here...no history...only what I feel now, what I sense you feel."

"No history," Ron murmured. "And I'm hurting you, but I'm not, really, am I? I'm...helping you."

"Helping yourself," Draco breathed.

Ron blinked; everything was so surreal - this fervor sizzling through his own flesh at the sight of Draco bound before him, the yearning that burrowed so deep that even his cock seemed to beg, all thick and ruddy and jutting from the elastic of his pants- nothing between him and Blaise had ever been like this.

He suddenly wanted to possess Draco, to forget himself and truly mark him so there'd be no forgetting he'd been there. He pulled away, their pressed flesh making a wet sound in the process, and he slid his palm down the length of Draco's stomach to dig his fingers beneath Draco's waistband. Draco quivered beneath Ron's hand as the offending clothing was tugged down, freeing his slender, rosy cock to bounce up against Ron's inner thigh. They both hissed aloud at the contact, and Draco thrust his hips forward again desperately.

"Just going to stand there like a great chicken and let me hang?" he taunted in a low, raspy voice.

"Do you ever stop complaining?" Ron grasped Draco's cock roughly and twisted his blood slicked fingers until Draco's whining morphed into a keening moan. "That's better," he whispered. With yet another burst of inspiration, he carefully slid his own erection free. His long fingers and wide palm could easily encircle both their cocks, and he did so, barely keeping upright at the sensation.

Draco had no such trouble standing. He shoved his hips forward wantonly, almost pulling the hook rack from the wall with his effort. His chest and stomach glistened with mixed sweat and blood, like a bizarre candy cane that Ron wasn't quite sure he was ready to slide his tongue across.

What Ron did want to do was put that look back on Draco's face- the lidded eyed, half-parted mouth, ohgodpleasefuckmeRon expression that burned though Ron's body, right down to his groin. He tightened his grip on both their cocks, pushing them together even closer so they brushed wetly against each other. Draco let a hiss escape at the carnal sensation and dropped his head to watch Ron's hand work between them. Ron raised the whittling knife and tilted Draco's chin back up with the flat of the blade.

"Do you like this Malfoy? This‛s what'll make you forget your name?"

Draco groaned and rocked his hips into Ron's hand.

"How about this?" Ron whispered, barely able to force the words out. He could feel himself tightening, preparing to peak too early, so he slowed the movements of his fist.

"What the fu-" Draco began, but Ron had anticipated it and pressed the cold metal on the flat side of the whittling knife against the tender skin below Draco's ribcage.

"What happens if I do this?" he repeated and tipped the blade to cut a third careful mark on Draco's blood-marbled flesh; Ron felt like he was carving a masterpiece out of pink and milky alabaster but from living and breathing flesh instead .He grit his teeth and redoubled his efforts with his other hand at the same time, knowing that he wouldn't last long, couldn't endure the white-hot pricklings of pleasure without his knees buckling and his climax tearing through his body.

Draco had arched his back and risen to his tiptoes as soon as Ron's knife dug into his skin, and now he groaned so heavily that Ron could nearly feel it.

"Fuck Draco! Almost..."

Draco lunged toward Ron to try and wrench his arms loose from the wall. "Oh fuck! Cut me down! Oh please cut me down! I have to... I have to touch..."

"Too hard..gonna come!" The knife slipped from Ron's hand but he never noticed. His breathe ripped into his lungs in ragged puffs, his bicep burned even as he forced himself to pump quicker and squeeze his fist tighter than he ever thought possible, and suddenly Draco cried out, lithe body bowed, and Ron's fist became drenched in Draco's seed.

A fiery sphere of heatlustdesirewant formed right below Ron's navel, and with two quick jerks of the now slippery cocks between his fist, he too was coming hard and fast, the indescribable pleasure sizzling along his bloodstream and into his ferociously pounding heart.

How he managed to stay on his feet would stay a mystery, though he braced his arms around Draco's waist. He dropped his forehead against Draco's, absently darting his tongue over the sheen of sweat and damp blond hairs plastered there until his breathing steadied and his body centered.

"Hands," Draco whispered. His body trembled against Ron's, and with his last bit of strength, Ron trailed his fingers up Draco's arms and detangled his abused wrists from the leather belt. They both sank to the sawdust coated floor in a boneless heap, their heavy breathing mingling in the air around them. Ron blinked sleepily and let his eyes wander over the pale and crimson speckled body resting elegantly beside him.

"What have I done?" Ron whispered. His senses had slowly drifted back and now he was staring wide-eyed at his handiwork on Draco's beautiful pale chest and belly. His heart had slowed from it's frantic pace, but now he could feel the anxiety building again._Things are going to be different now...what am I doing..._He sat up, his mind replaying their encounter in vivid detail.

"Weasley...Weasley? Ron!" Draco said his voice still thick and gravelly. He shifted slowly to match Ron's position and narrowed his eyes. Ron yanked himself from his thoughts and met Draco's questioning gaze.

"What have I done?" Ron said again softly, almost pleadingly.

"You regret it? " Draco asked, his voice flat. He summoned his wand and pressed the tip against his skin, prepared to heal the first of the cuts. Ron noticed Draco's hand shaking and reached for the other man's still-tender wrist, halting his spellwork.

"No...no." Ron pulled him closer and pressed a dry, quick kiss to Draco's lips. "It's just..." He waved his hand around his tiny corner workshop, his table and equipment looking strange and malformed in the flickering candlelight. "It's been this for so long, yeah? Since Blaise...and everything seems just so...so unreal right now. And this..." he touched his fingertips to the cut below Draco's collarbone that was already scabbing over. "What happens now?" His eyes rested on Draco's, though most of Draco's face was obscured in shadows and his expression unreadable.

Draco moved gracefully to his knees and summoned the _Boreas _prototype to his side. He twisted his arm so that he was the one gripping Ron's wrist, and he guided Ron's hand to slide along the broomstick. "This Ron. This will be your name. Your future. And one day you'll be ready for the reality of it."

Ron watched in a euphoric stupor as Draco pulled the whittling knife from the ground. He slid the razor-sharp edge over the pad of Ron's index finger and smiled softly when blood oozed from the fresh cut. "And this Ron, this line you walk with me between shadows and light? This is now, this is real." He drew his fingertip though the dull red fluid and chuckled darkly when he smoothed it over Ron's freckly forearm. "The blood-traitor that you are," he added.

Ron reached for Draco with his bleeding finger and touched it against one of the wounds. "Real," he whispered, tracing each mark he'd made in Draco's skin, each a testament to how pain and pleasure intermingled and became one, made things solid and surreal at the same time.

The lines might have become blurred, but to Ron, everything had become stunningly clear.

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End file.
